Opus
When he said I missed you
he didn’t mean it in the most
familiar way. She hadn’t been
gone. She’d been right there,
standing before his very eyes
yet what he’d seen was one
in need, not her. He saw what we routinely look for: ourselves. But she wasn’t needy anymore. She’d practiced her soul and was ready for a maestro’s life. I hope you find what you need, she said. He said I’m sorry you were so unhappy. On that note she saw him still blinded by the only cross we bear: ourselves.
in need, not her. He saw what we routinely look for: ourselves. But she wasn’t needy anymore. She’d practiced her soul and was ready for a maestro’s life. I hope you find what you need, she said. He said I’m sorry you were so unhappy. On that note she saw him still blinded by the only cross we bear: ourselves.
I want to read the rest of the story too please.
So, you’ve been there, too.
I think I can fill in some of the blanks of this too-familiar, and oh-so-sad story, I’m remembering past counseling sessions, when I walked more than one person through a marriage ended because of some variety of closed narcissism on one end, and the rise of reflective self-understanding and growth on the other. Many never heard an ‘I’m sorry’ of any kind, even a blinded one. Rich insights here, John. Thank you.
I like this. We cannot always (ever?) trust only our own perspective.
The sorry I received came five years late–still blinded, I think–nevertheless a gift. The rest of the story is difficult to write without compromising the privacy of human tragedy and offending the children born into it.
Thank you for this insightful poem, John. I find it difficult to believe you’ve lived this, though. Your eyes seem too open, too full of sight. But then, I remember how blind I was for most of my life and how easy it is to miss seeing.
Very fine, very fine. Write the Ingrid Michaelson song that goes with it, and make a fortune while you are at it. I mean that with all due respect to you both.
NAMASTE —
R. Benson
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